


Have a Funky Funky Christmas

by MistyBeethoven



Series: "Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You With a Story" [1]
Category: Swedish Dicks (2016)
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Avoidant Personality Disorder, BBW, Being Lost, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Crushes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demisexuality, F/M, Funk Music, Guns, Huddling For Warmth, Loss of Virginity, NKOTB - Freeform, New Kids on the Block - Freeform, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Overweight, Self-Indulgent, Size Difference, Strangers, Strangers to Lovers, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21701191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/pseuds/MistyBeethoven
Summary: Tex Johnson spends Christmas Eve & Christmas with me.*Yes I am that pathetic to do a Christmas "Swedish Dicks" story where Tex spends Christmas with me and then gift it to myself. But, hey, I have a crush on the man and it's Christmastime so might as well.*Updated ending. Just added a line or two.
Relationships: Tex Johnson & Axel Kruse, Tex Johnson & Ingmar Andersson, Tex Johnson/Me
Series: "Yes, I Really Am This Pathetic!" or "How to Say I Love You With a Story" [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589944
Kudos: 9





	Have a Funky Funky Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MistyBeethoven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyBeethoven/gifts).



> For the bad writer MistyBeethoven whom was pathetic enough to take her nom de plume from an erotic adaption of "My Fair Lady." You are a desperate woman with a painful and horrible crush on a man you can never have and you have my pity.
> 
> Mostly because I am you.

When I was turning the corner, my hands overflowing with gifts I had purchased at the last minute for friends that I don't really have, I saw him: Tex Johnson.

Tex Johnson, a well known and respected assassin (as well respected as fugitive paid killers, who had turned over a new leaf, really ever were,) was, for some reason or the other, in Canada and looking rather hopelessly lost in a little city most people are ashamed to admit they have even heard of let alone live in.

"Are you lost?" I ask him, setting my bags down in the snow.

"Well I'm certainly not found," he replies looking down at me as if I might be a map.

If I am, I am rather a large one. I have long brown hair that either looks nice or is a mess, green eyes and a nose that is kind of on the big side but I've grown rather attatched to for the many years it has taken up residence on the middle of my face.

I find that I also quite like Tex Johnson.

He is a very handsome man as his Wanted posters always promised he would be but I find myself just liking the whole attitude he gives off. He reminds me of if you were to cross Lowell from "Wings" with John Wick. Actually he looks an awful lot like Wick: another infamous hitman. I find myself wondering if they might actually be related in some small way.

"Were you blind but now you see?" I ask him.

He thinks about this for a moment. "Sometimes. I flip back between the two. My name is Tex Johnson," he says extending a hand that should be wearing a glove in this cold weather but isn't.

I take it in my own gloved hand, giving it whatever warmth that I can. "I know. I've fallen for clickbait concerning you a few times. I'm Erin," I introduce myself and give the hand a small shake. "Would you like to come home with me? Not for anything funny but just because you look lost, cold and lonely."

"You invite nefarious hitmen over to your house?" he asks, looking down at me in bemused curiosity as if I may be somebody he likes enough not to want to kill.

All in all a good sign.

"Not usually," I answer shyly. "Just when I kind of trust them, they've got the funk and it's Christmas."

"And also when you're loaded down and need help carrying your heavy bags?" he looks at me skeptically.

"No," I reply. "I'm good. I'm used to this."

I think this also kind of makes him trust me. "Okay," he says, picking up half of my parcels, but quickly adds, "But the moment I think you've called the cops I'm gone."

I nod. It means that he might be there forever.

We trudge through the snow to my place. When we get there I am both ashamed and proud of it.

"Be careful on the stairs," I warn him. They are a dangerous thing that may collapse at any moment.

At that moment, a flash of gray and white fur goes buzzing down the stairs past us. It is the old Tom cat that my sister and I feed.

"You didn't warn me about him," Tex remarks.

"He's my ex," I explain. "He shows up on my porch; I feed him and then he splits."

"He's very short," the hitman comments. "And hairy. And a little too old for you."

"I like older men," I confess.

Tex makes it up the stairs in one piece which I am grateful for: I like all of Tex Johnson's pieces where they are.

Letting him in, I think how grateful I am to have somebody with me this Christmas even if he is a notorious killer. My sister is off somewhere and it would be the first one I would have to spend alone if I hadn't bumped into my lost assassin Tex.

As we enter, a flash of gray and white fur comes running towards us. I pick the runty beast up and introduce it. "This is my son with my ex that you just met. A surrogate had him for us. My elderly lesbian friends and neighbors down the street took him in for a photo op one day and then stuck him back out. The surrogate rejected him and I had to take care of the little booger ever since. There are two others around here too."

"He's kind of small," Tex comments until he sees Tommy's backside as I put him down and he runs off. "Except for those."

"He doesn't go out so he gets to keep his year round Christmas ornaments. His father, however, wasn't so lucky: he was fixed a few years back."

"Well please do me favor and keep me like the little guy," the hitman states. "I don't consider myself to be broken."

I want to joke that as long as he stays indoors he'll be fine but I immediately get shy. I have AVPD and it's amazing that I have managed to talk this much. I also have OCD. I find that I analyze every little thing that I say and am afraid that I always seem stupid and unlikable. I'm making a painful effort now because I _like_ this man.

After I've taken both of our coats and put them on a hook, I see him looking around the joint, his hands on his hips, and I can only imagine what he's thinking. The house is kind of messy. I like the back left corner in the living room where we are standing in probably because it looks like it belongs in somebody else's house. I like my doll collection though. 

"It gets pretty cold in here," I warn him. "The furnace doesn't work; I use space heaters."

Space heaters I have heard can be dangerous. But, I think to myself, so can letting wanted assassins sleep over.

"You can sleep on the couch or in my mom's old room," I add. "The cats use it now though. If they attack you in the dead of night don't mind."

"I won't," he says drawing his gun. 

"And don't shoot them," I frown at him.

"Darn it," he says putting the gun away.

I show him the choices between my mother's old bedroom or the couch and he inevitably chooses the couch. I think it is because there isn't a kitty litter close to it but soon find out that I am wrong. He looks at the stereo nearby and smiles that beautiful smile of his: like he can be genuinely as happy and innocent like a little boy past all his former nastiness. Not that little boys are all that innocent, I soon remember.

"Now this I like," he compliments. "Music saved my life you know."

I do know. Still I let him tell me how he had been dying after having been shot by a man named Axel; he had crawled away and fallen from a ludicrously tall height into a lowrider. Only as he had heard the beats of a funk song on the radio had he come back to life. I let him tell me because it makes him happy and seeing him happy and listening to his voice makes me happy.

"And that is why I am here today," he finishes up with a grin.

"Yes," I say. "But why are you _here_ in Canada?"

He gives a small abrupt laugh. "Because I stole a private jet with a broken compass. I was aiming for New Orleans."

"If you had that bad of an aim as a hitman you'd be infamous in a completely different way," I remark. "Or dead. Definitely unemployed at the least."

"Don't I know it," he replies.

"Do you miss your friends being so far away from them?" I ask. Generally I don't like to ask this sort of question. It's like asking if somebody is nervous: its more apt to make someone nervous even if they aren't or have forgotten to be. In Tex's case, I'd be afraid it would make him miss his friends but I can tell he already does and I think maybe he'd feel better and closer to them if he talked about them for a bit.

"Yes," he states. "I miss them something terrible."

Against my better judgment I go and grab my phone and hand it to him. He looks more than a little surprised when I say, "Go ahead. Wish them a Merry Christmas."

"Thanks," he says with a smile as he sits down on my couch.

He hasn't bothered to tell me that it's long distance; if I recall he's from California. Still it will be my Christmas present to him.

Not wanting to eavesdrop, I leave him alone and head to the kitchen. There is no door to separate it from the living room where Tex is sitting so I overhear pieces of his conversation. He is talking to a man named Ingmar that works at a place called "Swedish Dicks," I know it is a private detective agency or else I would worry it was a European Porn studio. 

The man on the other end of the phone seems shocked to learn that Tex is in Canada but not as shocked to discover that he is staying over at a woman he just met's house.

I become _more_ than a little nervous.

His talk with Ingmar is warm and friendly and it seems that whatever wounds were opened in the past have now healed. Tex wishes him a Merry Christmas and then the other man puts him through to someone called Alfred the Murderer. Once more season's greetings are exchanged. When Alfred is about to put him through to someone called Sun, however, Tex becomes anxious and says that he's got to go; apparently this Sun scares Tex Johnson as much as another one should have a man named Icarus. He hangs up quickly after another Merry Christmas wish.

I find him looking kind of sad on the couch and staring blankly into space. He kind of reminds me of these photos some rude photographer took of this poor man eating a sandwich alone on a bench this one time. I want to cheer him up so I give him a hug even though it startles him at first because he wasn't aware that I had reentered the room.

He seems to like the hug though. My mom used to say that I was cuddly whenever I hugged her so, inspite of my weight, there is that, at least.

"Thanks," he says again, giving my chubby arm a squeeze which both embarrasses me and makes me wonderfully happy.

"Do you want to listen to some Christmas music?" I ask as I feel his head against my chest.

"Do you know any Funky Christmas music?" he inquires into my breasts, liking his head pushed into my 42 H cup a little _too_ much probably.

"Yes," I say blushing and bidding a hasty retreat as I speed over to the stereo where I decide to play a little joke.

The sounds of the New Kids on the Block's "Have a Funky Funky Christmas" fill the living room.

"Put the gun away," I chastise Tex Johnson as he doesn't get the joke.

To prove that I _do_ know what funk music is really, I hastily put on the Jive Turkey's "Funky Jesus."

"Now _that's_ more like it," he praises.

I lie on my stomach on the rug in front of him, bend my knees and cross my legs at the ankles as I rest my head in my hands and look up at him as he sits on the sofa and enjoys the rhythm. When the song has finished and it goes to the Staple Singers' "Who Took the Mary Out of Christmas," I ask him what his favorite holiday song is.

"Whichever one doesn't give me a headache," he answers with a smirk. "What's yours?"

I don't need to think about it for too long although I love so many. "I know it's not very original because everybody loves it but 'Silent Night' means a lot to me," I say. "I remember this one time when I was young and the class went to the kindergarten classroom because there was a piano there. We sang Carols. When we got to 'Silent Night' and the part 'round yon virgin,' I just pictured Mary holding her newborn son and just being tired after having given birth to him...but just loving and being grateful for him all the same. It really _meant_ something to me then. That has stuck with me all these years, that image, so it is my favorite...The mix of the human and the Divine: Mary's joy at the end of her pain and her son with God, Jesus Christ, in her arms...her just loving him."

I don't tell him that I emphasize with Mary in one very particular way even after all these years which separate me from that little girl that I was, sitting crossed leg on the kindergarten room's floor. I don't want him to think I'm pathetic and don't know how to tell him that I think sex is beautiful and that you should really only do it with someone that you care about and love.

When I raise my eyes, I find him looking at me oddly and I feel blood rushing to my cheeks again.

Changing the subject, I announce, "Tomorrow I'll make you Christmas dinner. I only use one pot because it all is instant. You'll like it."

...

"Put the gun away Tex."

* * *

In my own bed, the lights still on because it generates more heat that way, I contemplate Tex Johnson sleeping on the sofa only to find him bursting into the room, hopping into my sorry excuse for a bed and slipping under the covers with me.

"It's damn cold out there," he informs me. "And Merry Christmas by the way."

"Merry Christmas," I return, not having been too lost in thought to know that it's now past 12.

He snuggles up next to me and I have no idea if he is being honest and only wants to get warm or if he wants to try for something more too. My insecurity about my weight makes me doubt this but he definitely is cuddling with me and holding my chubby body up next to him so at least he doesn't find me gross.

If he wants to do more than this that would be fine with me. But if snuggling is all I'm gonna get that is okay too. I will take it as his Christmas present to me.

He's taking my warmth like he's a thief besides being a killer as he holds my wide frame.

"I'm too big," I say, feeling his beard nuzzling up against my neck.

"You're much better than anything I was offered in prison. Besides, you're cute this way," he says with a squeeze and I hold on to him now also and take a little of his warmth too.

"Mind if I kill the light?" he asks.

I nod and softly say, "No."

Tex Johnson takes out his gun and shoots the lightbulb, leaving us in darkness if not quite silence. I hear that he's put on "Funky Jesus" again on the stereo.

"Unnn, Tex," I ask as I feel something poking me, not only in the dark, but on my plump thigh also. "Is that your gun?"

"Well I like to shoot it off sometimes if that counts," he informs.

"Are you planning on _now_?" I inquire feeling my heart racing quite a bit.

"Not _right_ now before I've even gotten started," Tex confesses. "But give me time, Erin."

He then kisses me (a round virgin) not only in the dark but on my lips too. And as he does, the snow falls gently outside on this not so silent night.

**Author's Note:**

> That's probably doubly dangerous unsafe sex because it is with a deadly hitman but it's unfortunately fictional so, I think, I should be fine.
> 
> I actually have a painful and horrible crush on most of Keanu Reeves' characters. Most notably except the two respectively in "My Own Private Idaho" and "Tune in Tomorrow." It's not that they weren't good looking men it's just that their personalities annoyed me (Scott was a jerk and Martin was good-boy sleaze) and what's inside matters more than what's out so I didn't like them.
> 
> I do have a painful and horrible crush on the actor too but will never write a fic with him. I don't pretend that I would know what the man would say or do in any situation, of if he'd even like me, so I just can't and won't do it.
> 
> Fictional characters, however, are okay.


End file.
